


The Prince's Man

by Fanforthefics (StormDancer)



Series: Hockey Tumblr Oneshots [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Knight Geno, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Prince Sidney, handwavey politics, lots and lots of loyalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-01 09:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13995042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/Fanforthefics
Summary: “I won’t let you die for me!” Sidney hisses, but it feels loud as swords clashing.





	The Prince's Man

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "injury" for the SidGeno fluff fest. Reposted from tumblr, so not betaed. Don't know, don't own, entirely fictionalized versions with nothing to do with the actual people, etc. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“Damn it!”

Zhenya lets the flap of the pavilion fall shut before anyone outside can hear or see what’s happening inside. The doctors see, by necessity; the Sidney’s squire sees, because Sidney trusts him as much as any of the knights. But no one else should see this—Sidney sitting on the table, his cuisses and greaves still on but the top of his armor stripped off, and blood staining the side of his tunic a bright, painful red.

Zhenya eyes the wound. Tries to watch it with the battlefield in mind; assessing what it means for the battle. Not to think about how that’s Sidney’s blood; not to think about how sickening twist of how Sidney had snapped back in the saddle at the errant lance. Sidney’s not supposed to bleed, not like this.

The doctors are still humming around Sidney, buzzing like bees and talking about something Zhenya doesn’t care to understand. He sidles over to Sheary, who’s still clutching Sidney’s breastplate like he can somehow use it to block out the hit.

“He okay?” Zhenya asks in an undertone.

“I don’t—yes,” Sheary concludes. He nods, sure. He’s a good man; he’ll make a good knight, soon enough. Sidney keeps on putting off knighting him because he doesn’t want to train a new squire, but they all know it’s time. “It was a lot of blood, but not…”

Nothing like the blow to the head, Zhenya fills in. That had been the kingdom’s nightmare; their prince sequestered for over a year, noise of appointing a new heir rumbling in the streets, and Sidney pacing the walls of the tower watching his knights drill on the grounds below with longing like a knight for his lady love.

This is a clean strike, at least, or so it looks from here; a lance to the side is not an easy wound, but at least it’s one they can see.  

Zhneya meets Sheary’s eyes and nods, understanding all of this.

But there are other things the boy doesn’t understand, not yet.

Zhenya puts a hand on Sheary’s shoulder and squeezes, a comfort, then makes his way to the crowd of doctors. They let him through easily enough; the whole kingdom knows he’s the prince’s man, and that Sidney trusts him.

In the center of the crowd, Sidney’s patience is clearly wearing thin, but nothing like that oath has come out again—instead, his teeth are gritted and his hands curled into fists at his sides as the doctors wrap the wound. His cheeks are still flushed from the joust, and he still wears the simple tunic and hose that go under his armor—he’ll have to replace the tunic, Zhenya notes absently; he’ll hate that. That tunic has brought him luck in many jousts.

He must make a noise, because Sidney looks up, and their eyes lock.

When Zhenya first came to Pittsburgh, ten years or more ago now, he’d already heard stories about their prince—cursed, one story had said, or blessed, said another. Uncanny, yet a third had said. The best knight in the land, most agreed and, maybe that was what Zhenya had believed most and least, newly exiled and searching for a quest to prove himself.

But then he’d come to the throne room, and seen the king on his throne and the man—barely a boy, younger than Sheary was now—standing to the side of the throne, straight backed and strongly built, and watching Zhenya walk towards him. He’d barely spoken, that presentation, but as Zhenya started to leave, to let Sir Gonchar take him to his quarters, the prince had stepped from the dais, and clasped Zhenya’s arm, and he’d met Zhenya’s eyes with his, a clear, bright hazel, and he had smiled—and Zhenya had known, from that first moment, that this was a prince he would follow anywhere.

Zhenya thinks of that first look now, as Sidney looks at him, pale from bloodloss and tense from pain, and a world of understanding passes between them.

“I can still do it,” Sidney says.

“Can’t.”

“I can, I can—”

“You’re not fighting again, my lord,” Vyas says, stern. He’s worked with the knights, and especially the prince, for long enough to perfect that tone. “Not today.”

Sidney ignores him, still looking at Zhenya. “I can do it.”

Zhenya looks down at him. Sidney’s always been strong, the solid bulwark like the foundations of the castle itself, and he’s fought wounded before—they all have, on the battlefield. But now, the bloodstain on the bandages are still growing, and he can see Sidney’s hand shaking. Not much—on anyone else, it would be unremarkable—but on Sidney, is said everything.

“Lift arm, Sid.”

“I—”

“Going to fight if can’t lift sword?” Zhenya interrupts, and ignores the murmurs. Everyone knows Sidney is informal with his knights, and Zhenya is his right hand. “Lift arm.”

Sidney scowls, never unable to take a challenge, and tries to raise his right arm. He doesn’t get to shoulder height before his breath catches in his throat and he bites down hard on his lip. Zhenya doesn’t feel good, for being right.  

“I’ll manage,” Sidney says. “I have to.” Zhenya looks pointed at his arm. Sidney’s face goes somber. “We both know what’ll happen, if there’s no one there.”

They both do, too well. A stupid, pointless ritual, Zhenya’s always thought; a holdover from the days when being a king meant nothing more than force at arms. It’s always been an exhibition before this; the crown prince fighting simply because the commons loved to cheer.

But now—if there is no one to fight, then the black knight wins be default. Zhenya would almost think this was his doing, a way to ensure his victory over Sidney, to ensure his path to the throne and the bloodshed he would bring beyond it. He was a spider, after all, spreading his lies and plots throughout the city until his claim felt strong enough that nothing but the challenge would do to prove Sidney’s rightful place. A foolish plan, Zhenya had thought, before Sidney’s last joust; the black knight was good, but not so good that he would win. And the challenge was a bloodthirsty one.

“If you fight now, you lose,” Zhenya tells Sidney, because he’ll be honest if no one else will. “You lose, he kill you.”

Sidney swallows. The room’s gone quiet. He tilts his head up, and his jaw is set stubbornly. “Then—”

“No.”

“Geno.”

“No,” Zhenya repeats. There are things he refuses in life, and Sidney’s death is one of them.

Sidney’s eyes glint warningly. If he had a sword in hand, if he weren’t injured, Zhenya might be worried. “Sir Malkin. You forget your—”

“I fight,” Zhenya announces, and Sidney’s mouth snaps shut on whatever he was about the censure Zhenya with. “You get champion, yes? I fight.”

A beat. Two. Then, “Everybody out,” Sidney orders—a battlefield order, not the polite requests he makes of servants in the castle. This is the commander at work.

“Your bandages,” Vyas objects mildly.

“They’re as good as they’ll get for now. Out. You too, Conor.”

The pavilion clears. Zhenya doesn’t move.

When everyone’s gone, Sidney’s eyes narrow again. “What were you saying?”

“I fight. You say I your champion, is allowed, yes? I fight.”

“No.”

“So you fight?” Zhenya retorts, getting angry now. That’s why Sidney had cleared the room, they both know; it’s important that Sidney’s command looks absolute to the public. But Zhenya’s never been good at taking orders. “You want to die?”

“Of course not.”

“You want black knight be prince of Pittsburgh?”

“No, I don’t, but—”

“Then I—”

“I won’t let you die for me!” Sidney hisses, but it feels loud as swords clashing.

Their breaths are loud, harsh. Far off, beyond the canvas walls of the pavilion, Zhenya can barely make out the sounds of the tournament crowds.

“I won’t let you die for me,” Sidney repeats, quieter. He looks at his hands, then back at Zhenya. He’s sitting, and so is even shorter than usual compared to Zhenya, but he’s always held himself like a prince, even when he doesn’t want to. “I knew what I was doing, when I took the challenge. I won’t make you do it.”

“Not make, Sid.” Zhenya lets out his anger with another long breath. “I your knight. Your second. Be your champion.”

Sidney’s face looks whiter than it did a moment ago. Zhenya really hopes its not more blood loss. If he gets the prince too angry and hurts him, then he’ll have all the knights after him. “I can’t lose you, Geno.”

Zhenya feels that all the way through to his heart. Packs it away, with all the other bits of Sidney that he can have, when the city takes so much. “Think I lose? Not good enough to beat black knight?”

“Of course you are,” Sidney replies, easy and confident as breathing. “But we both know, that’s not always enough.” His eyes are bleak. He reaches out a hand, so he can rest it on Zhenya’s arm, light as a feather, searing as a brand. “I don’t want to ask this of you. This is mine to bear, not yours.”

“Sid.” Zhenya drops to one knee. He’d knelt like this before, sworn an oath he’d taken into his blood and bones. He’d meant it then, as he meant it now—he was the prince’s, body and soul and heart, and whatever else his prince needed of him. He had been since that first smile, that first assurance when none was needed. “You not asking. I giving.”

Sidney shakes his head, though there's a smile on his lips, something rueful. “Duty’s not worth dying for, not like this.”

A lie, Zhenya thinks; Sidney would die for duty and for loyalty and for what his people demanded of him. Zhenya’s not like that; he’s a knight and he keeps his oaths, but duty’s not written into him like it is with Sidney. It might be Zhenya’s duty to do this; he wouldn’t know.

Zhenya doesn’t look away from Sidney’s face. “Not doing this for duty.” He looks, and sees Sidney know—the thing they don’t talk about, the thing they’ve never said that was planted between them in that long-ago throne room.

“Geno,” Sidney breathes, and it feels like a prayer.

“I fight,” Zhenya says it, like that’ll make it true. “I fight, I win for you. You get better, be prince. Be king. Be best king.”

Slowly, Sidney nods, like even that motion hurts. Then, in a motion, Zhenya is fairly sure actually does hurt, he leans forward, takes Zhenya’s hand, and brings the knuckles to his lips. Zhenya’s whole world freezes.

“Not without you,” Sidney murmurs, so soft that it only lives in the space between them.

Then Sid drops his hand and looks away. Zhenya gets to his feet, happy of the reprieve.  “I—go say, I your champion?” he confirms. It feels right, in his mouth. Sidney’s champion.

“Yes.” Zhenya takes a step away, then, “Oh! Wait. Um.”

Sid glances around, looks down at himself, makes a face, and rips off a ribbon of his tunic. With his left hand still moving gingerly, he holds it out. “Here. If you’re my champion, you should wear a favor.”

It’s a bit sweaty, and Zhenya knows just how long Sidney’s had that tunic. He takes it anyway.

Sidney’s still eying him. “It’s always brought me luck,” he says, and now there’s all those things they don’t say in his eyes. “So win.”

Zhenya bows, as properly as he knows how, and brings the prince’s favor to his heart. “Yes, my lord,” he agrees, and tries to capture that image, of Sidney sitting straight and proud despite his wound, his whole focus on Zhenya, on believing in Zhenya, to carry with him as he leaves.

///

“Your prince too cowardly to fight his own battles?” the black knight mocks, as they circle each other on the field. It’s already hot in armor under the afternoon sun, and the dust hovers in the air. “Sends a foreign exile to fight in his stead?”

Zhenya shifts his grip on his sword. Out of the corner of his eye, in the royal pavilion, he can see Sidney, flanked by his knights; Sidney’s favor is tied around his arm under his armor.

“Prince too important to fight you,” Zhenya retorts, and he can feel himself smile. “My job take out trash for him.”

The black knight makes an inarticulate noise of rage and raises his sword, and Zhenya steps forward to meet him.

///

Later—after Zhenya’s sword rests at the black knight’s throat; after the black knight begs Sidney’s mercy on his knees, after Zhenya’s bruises are dressed, after the feast and Zhenya feeling Sidney’s gaze on him the whole time he drank and boasted among the knights—a rap sounds on the doors of Zhenya’s chambers. Zhenya should be surprised, but isn’t, when Sidney’s standing there.

Standing, or maybe more accurately leaning, like he if he let go of the doorjamb he might fall over. But he’s there, and watching Zhenya with something in his gaze he’s never seen before.

“Late, for visit,” Zhenya points out.

Sidney nods. “I know.” He doesn’t look away.

“You injured, should be resting.”

“Maybe.” Sidney shrugs, and then winces enough that it’s clear that he definitely should be resting, and not standing outside of Zhenya’s door. “Are you going to ask me in?”

“Sidney…” There’s a reason they’ve never said the words before, never addressed what lay between them.

“You could have died for me today. In my stead.” Sidney’s voice is even and sure. “You could have died, and I wouldn’t have said—and why?” He shakes his head, harsh. “I would have died for my people today, and done it happily. But this is—they don’t get you.”

He straightens, draws himself up ignoring how much it must hurt. Even there, dressed in a simple tunic that hides the bandages still around his ribs and holding himself upright by will alone, there’s no mistaking Sidney for anything but what he is: a prince. Zhenya’s prince. And a man, handsome and strong and better than anyone else Zhenya knows.

“I’m not asking as your prince, or your captain.” Sidney’s eyes in the torchlight are still clear and bright as they have been every day for the past ten years. “May I come in?”

Zhenya is the prince’s man, through and through, and has been from the start; and it has nothing to do with Sidney’s title.

He stands aside, and lets Sidney in.  

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Want to talk about it? Comment or come chat on [ tumblr!](http://fanforthefics.tumblr.com/)


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